


Breakpoint

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Drowning, Gen, Hospitalization, Hostage Situations, Ventilator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24720301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: For the bad things happen square: Drowned.As soon as the coughing fit subsides he takes a deep — and painful — breath and goes under, slamming down on the button as hard as the drag of the water will allow. Anger at the situation is the only thing keeping him from losing hope, and he holds onto it like a life preserver.He doesn't look over at Dani, but he also doesn't wait quite as long to surface, swimming as quickly as his fatigued muscles will allow, giving himself no time to pant for breath, just gulping in another breath and diving down again.And again.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741687
Comments: 60
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to KateSamantha for talking me into making this worse for poor Malcolm than I had originally intended!

"Do you understand, Mr. Bright?" Wyatt Broderick asks, relaxed in a way that makes Malcolm incredibly nervous. The stocky man is looking up expectantly from where he stands approximately nine feet below Malcolm, obviously expecting an answer. His arms hang loose at his sides, right hand lightly gripping a pistol that he clearly doesn't expect to use, left hand holding a black remote.

Malcolm's eyes dart over the man from head to toe, cold bands of panic wrapping around his heart as he reaches the conclusion that Wyatt will not respond to negotiation. The man isn't angry. He isn't nervous. There's no doubt or insecurity that Malcolm can play on to get him to change his mind. There's no unbridled rage that he can tap to provoke Wyatt into making a mistake. 

There is nothing but a resigned determination. Wyatt intends to see this through.

Even knowing this, Malcolm still tries to talk him down.

"Mr. Broderick, please, you don't want to do this," Malcolm implores, hands spread in supplication. He's fighting the urge to look away, forcing himself to keep his eyes locked on Wyatt and not track Dani's frantic movements just to the man's left.

"You're right, Mr. Bright, I don't," Wyatt replies earnestly, "but that's not going to change things."

"I know you're in pain, but killing us is not going to change what happened, and it's not going to bring your son back," Malcolm tries to bite back the desperation in his words as his voice cracks around the plea. He's searching desperately for anything he can use to change Wyatt's mind, but the lack of micro-expressions on the man's face is screaming everything he's terrified to hear.

He can't keep his eyes from drifting over to Dani, trapped in a chamber identical to the one he's currently standing atop. Identical in every respect, save that hers is empty and his is filled with water. The plexiglass window at the front gives him a clear view of her as she runs her hands around the seams of the container, searching for an, apparently non-existent, weak spot.

"I'd take a deep breath if I were you," Wyatt says, drawing Malcolm's attention back to the man as he raises the remote. 

"Please, Mr. Broderick, don't—," Malcolm starts but is soon cut off by the sound of rushing water. His head snaps back to Dani's tank as torrents of water begin to pour into the container. Even from where he's standing, he can see the fear shining bright in Dani's eyes as she begins to pound her fists against the plexiglass, her muffled shouts ringing loud, even over the gushing water.

Malcolm doesn't think twice. One deep breath and he dives headfirst into the full tank beneath him, swimming straight to the bottom to slam his hands down on the large button at the base, continuously kicking his legs to keep himself at the base of the tank.

The plexiglass front of his chamber has been set to look directly into Dani's, and the terror that he felt as the water began to flood in around her eases as he sees the water cut off, slowing to a dribble before it stops completely. Dani looks up at the pipe that had been pumping water into the small space and then over to him, dawning realization giving way to horror as she understands exactly what's happening.

Her head shakes in denial as she presses her palms flat against the window, lips forming around his name. When her gaze shoots up to the top of his tank and she begins pounding on the glass once again, he angles his body so that, craning his head, he can see the top of the tank as the metal lid slams in place.

There's a moment of absolute panic, blind terror spreading through him like wildfire. Every instinct in his body screams at him to swim to the top, to find air immediately, and it takes every ounce of will power he has to go against those instincts and keep kicking downwards.

Wyatt had explained, succinctly and with very little emotion, exactly how this was going to work. As long as the button at the bottom of his tank was depressed, the water would be cut off from flowing into Dani's tank. 

It's simple, really.

But as his lungs begin to burn and the pressure in his chest becomes nearly unbearable, it proves to be the most difficult problem he's ever faced. He knows he can't stay down forever. Knows he'll have to swim to the top — and he prays that Wyatt was telling the truth about there being a couple inches of air left for him — to refill his lungs. But every second he stays down could be the difference between life and death for Dani.

Gil and JT will be looking for them, and it's only a matter of time before they make the connection to the loading docks at the pier. Which means his only job is hold the button down until help arrives.

The burn is overwhelming, but it's not until his chest starts bucking, that he arches his back and turns his body upwards, using strong legs to push himself up off the base of the tank. He reaches the surface of the water faster than he intends, throwing a hand up at the last second to avoid slamming his head into the metal lid that Wyatt replaced.

After a fraction of a second of near hysteria when he's sure Wyatt lied about the air at the top of the tank, he tips his head back and takes a great, heaving breath, sucking oxygen into his aching lungs with such force that it leaves him hacking and coughing as he tries to right his breathing.

There's maybe four inches of air at the top of the chamber. Not enough space for him to keep his entire head above the water line, but enough that, if he tilts his head upwards, he can keep his nose and mouth clear of the water. His breath comes fast, echoing loudly, both in his partially-submerged ears and in the tiny cavern of air that he's been afforded.

He allows himself a few seconds to school his breathing, turning his rapid pants into a handful of full, deep breaths until he sucks in one last lungful of air and dives back down to the bottom of the tank. 

For something so small and innocuous, the button feels like a looming presence as he makes his way down. He slams it with both hands and then jerks his head over to look at Dani; the water level in her tank is already above her ankles, but she's not looking towards him. Instead, she's facing the corner of her chamber, kicking out powerfully at the seam where the plexiglass front meets the metal that makes up the rest of the container. 

When the water stops flowing, she freezes as she's about to kick out again, dropping her foot and looking over to Malcolm. He wishes he could tell her that it's going to be okay, that he's going to keep her safe until Gil and JT find them. He wishes he could smooth out the worry that's creasing her features as she brings both hands to the top of her head, looking over at him with dread and a resignation that breaks his heart.

He looks away, unable to bear the thought of her accepting her fate. Then he takes the time to do some mental calculations.

The tanks look to be about nine feet tall, six feet wide and six feet deep. If he's doing the math right, it's going to take about 2,400 gallons of water to fill it. It seems like so much, but when he factors in how much water is already in Dani's tank, just from one breather, he knows this is going to end quickly, one way or another.

Though the fear is still very much present, now that he knows what to expect, some of the panic has abated. He still stays down as long as he can, but makes note of the water level in Dani's tank when his chest starts bucking and he breaks for the surface. The first gasp of air still burns and makes his chest ache like it's being split open from the inside, but he's faster to even out his respiration this time. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath and then he's back under once again.

Once the flow of water stops in Dani's tank, he makes an educated guess. Probably 40 gallons was added in the short time he was gone. If he's even close in his calculations, that means he has fewer than 60 breaks for air before Dani's tank is full. 

And he's already used two.

However, he can tell that the amount of time he's able to hold his breath is going to get shorter with each submersion. His lungs are already beginning to protest and he hasn't been under nearly as long this time. 

Hating himself for letting Dani down, he pushes back up to the top of the tank. 

He shoves his wet hair from his face as his chest heaves, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness from the repeated strain of holding his breath followed by only a few seconds of rapid breathing. He realizes his initial estimate of 60 breaks before Dani's tank is full was far too optimistic. He'll be lucky if he gets 30. 

He offers a prayer that Gil is on his way, then dives back in.

Over and over and over.

The amount of time he stays down becomes progressively shorter with each turn and it gets to the point that he can no longer bear to look at Dani, sickened with the knowledge that he's failing her with every single breath he takes. When he does finally dare to glance towards Dani's tank, the water is already past her waist, and his heart leaps into his throat. He didn't realize he was running through his time quite so quickly.

The problem is, he's already exhausted. He has to continuously kick his legs to give himself the leverage to keep the button depressed, but the longer he goes without oxygen the harder it is to keep moving. His muscles ache and feel like they've been soaked in molten lead, but still he keeps kicking.

The next time he surfaces, his vision turns fuzzy, graying around the edges and startling him as his head dips under the water before he catches himself. He flails for a moment before he can bring himself back to a steady tread, and, thankfully, the sudden adrenaline rush clears the fog that had been clouding his mind. 

But the little misstep eats up precious seconds that he can't spare. He huffs in a breath and dives back down, his lungs screaming in protest before he even reaches the bottom of the tank. Although he knows that he will keep going until his body physically can't handle anymore and gives out on him, he worries that it's getting to that point faster than he would have expected.

He steels himself and looks over to Dani, horrified to find her treading water in her tank, feet unable to reach the ground anymore. She's in the process of shrugging off her sodden jacket, giving herself a better range of motion to move her arms back and forth as she treads water to keep afloat. She looks surprisingly graceful, Malcolm thinks to himself, and the part of his brain that treats every person in his life like a puzzle to be solved wonders if, perhaps, she had been a swimmer when she was in school. That thought vanishes as quickly as it formed when Dani looks over to him.

She's preparing herself for the inevitable, and the sadness that creases her eyes makes Malcolm's chest ache even more than the lack of oxygen. Even once he's turned away, focusing his attention instead on the button, on the floor, on the metal walls, on anything besides the look of resignation on Dani's face, he can't get the image of her eyes out of his mind.

He stays down until his vision goes spotty and he begins floating upwards when he forgets to keep kicking his legs. He doesn't quite make it to the surface this time when his lungs demand oxygen with a force that can't be denied, and he ends up inhaling a mouthful of water. The cool liquid viciously burns in his lungs as he coughs and hacks and tries to expel the water.

His body instinctively curls forward and he barely has the presence of mind to keep his head tilted backwards and slightly to the side, ensuring his face stays above the waterline while making sure he doesn't just choke on the water he's coughing up. 

It takes too long to catch his breath and he realizes his mistake immediately. If he chokes, Dani dies. He needs to do better.

As soon as the coughing fit subsides he takes a deep — and painful — breath and goes under, slamming down on the button as hard as the drag of the water will allow. Anger at the situation is the only thing keeping him from losing hope, and he holds onto it like a life preserver.

He doesn't look over at Dani, but he also doesn't wait quite as long to surface, swimming as quickly as his fatigued muscles will allow, giving himself no time to pant for breath, just gulping in another breath and diving down again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually, he can no longer afford to avert his gaze from Dani's tank. He needs to know how much time he has left, _needs_ to know that she's still alive. She's already got her eyes trained on him when he looks over, offering a sad smile that he can't even pretend to return. But with each subsequent trip to the button, he forces himself to meet her eye, an apology for her and a punishment for him, as the water level gets to the point that he's going to lose sight of her soon. There's about eight inches above the top of the plexiglass where it switches to the metal of the rest of the container, and soon, in order to keep her face above water, she'll be behind that metal.

When Malcolm breaks the surface this time, it's not with a gasp, but a scream. All of the rage and fear pouring out of his chest with a violence that surprises him. It doesn't last long — he doesn't have the air for it. But it's primal and painful and it gives him the strength to keep going.

She's a floating body the next time he looks, her head out of sight above the plexiglass edge. It's somehow better and worse simultaneously. Avoiding the acceptance in her gaze helps to assuage his guilt, but the thought of never seeing the playful spark in her eyes again is almost more than he can bear. 

There's the added problem, too, of not knowing exactly how much air she has left, since he can no longer see the waterline.

But almost immediately, Dani dunks herself below the surface, fluttering her arms and legs enough to keep herself directly in front of the plexiglass, waiting until Malcolm grudgingly makes eye contact. _It's okay_ , she mouths, and it takes everything in his power not to just look away. He can't handle her forgiveness. Not for this. It shatters him to see her mouth _Not your fault_ , tiny bubbles of air — trace amounts of what's left of her life — escaping her mouth and rising up and out of sight.

He bites back the urge to scream, to shout at the heavens, to rail against the injustice of Dani dying because Wyatt blames the team for the death of his son. But then he catches a glimpse of movement from just beside Dani's tank and barely keeps himself from sucking in a surprised breath as he sees Gil and JT cautiously, but quickly, making their way into the room, guns drawn as they sweep the area for danger.

Malcolm has to kick up to the surface, banging his fist repeatedly against the metal ceiling of the tank as he gasps in another breath. He dives back down before he probably should, but he needs to see them. Needs to let them know that they have to get Dani out. Now.

He doesn't let himself consider the fact that it could already be too late.

Once he's got the button depressed he looks up to see Gil standing in front of him, hand splayed flat against the glass and terror clear in his eyes. Malcolm wastes no time and waves a hand towards Dani's tank, praying the man can see the urgency in his eyes. 

Gil's eyebrows draw together and he looks over his shoulder to where JT is already climbing the ladder that leads to the top of Dani's chamber, and Malcolm is so relieved he could cry. His lungs feel like they're about to combust but he needs to see that Dani is pulled out safely before he can let go. 

He doesn't hear the curse that comes from JT, but the anger on the detective's face speaks volumes as he tries to yank off the lid, only to find that it won't budge. Malcolm's eyes go wide as the relief he felt, thinking that this was almost over, sours in his stomach as he watches JT lean over and grab hold of the padlock that's keeping him from lifting the hatch.

Looking around Gil, Malcolm can just make out Dani's body, catching glimpses of her arms as they continue to stroke back and forth, keeping herself afloat. She's entirely horizontal now, but from the height she's at, he can tell she's got less than two inches of air and if he lets go of the button, with how sluggishly he's moving now, he won't make it back down before her chamber fills.

Malcolm's vaguely aware of Gil disappearing, can hear the rattle of the lid above him and understands that his chamber has been padlocked as well, but it doesn't even matter, because if he doesn't stay exactly where he is, Dani dies.

His chest begins bucking, but he holds firm, eyes trained on Dani, reminding his treacherous body why he can't let go and swim to the surface. His hand slips off the button for half a second as his body starts convulsing but he slams it back on as soon as he notices. His body is giving out, giving in to the need to breathe, and he has to make a decision. 

He can swim to the top and take a breath, or he can give Gil and JT every extra second he possibly can to find a way to get Dani out.

There's no question in his mind. 

He feels his body preparing to inhale and presses one hand to his mouth, squeezing his nose shut between thumb and forefinger to give himself just a little longer. His vision has gone well past spotty and he just barely makes out Gil running into the room — _when did he leave_ , Malcolm wonders — and tossing JT a crowbar, with which JT immediately attacks the padlock. Even through the walls of the tank and the water and the cottony feel that's clogging up his head, he can hear Gil and JT's shouts, but he can't keep his eyes open any longer to watch what they're doing.

Darkness descends on him before his eyes even flutter shut, vision tunneling and turning grey, and the last thing he sees is Gil pulling his gun from its holster, before he loses his vision completely.

At the same time, he reaches the breakpoint, when his body will no longer allow him to hold his breath. Against his will, he inhales sharply, water flooding into his nose and mouth, burning as it consumes his lungs. His entire body spasms as it tries to expel the water, and it _hurts_ more than he thought possible. 

Between the sheer agony of drowning and the terror that's taking over his final few thoughts, he welcomes the pull of unconsciousness. Just before he succumbs, he hears a resounding bang, but he no longer has the ability to process the sound for what it is.

Everything just…

Stops.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful feedback on this! You truly made my day 🙂

Until suddenly there is a pulsing pressure on his chest that's crushing him and threatening to break through his ribs, and his lungs begin to spasm again. Only this time, there's somewhere for the water to go, and blessed air to replace it with. His muscles convulse as he brings up wave after wave of water from his lungs, coughing and hacking as he fights to suck in the smallest bits of air.

Even once the coughing finally slows, there's still a throbbing ache ripping through his chest. The best he can manage is short, rasping breaths, and every single one of them burns and worsens the throbbing in his chest.

It takes several seconds before he becomes aware of his surroundings. Gil is kneeling next to him, soaking wet and carding a hand through Malcolm's hair, the deep crease between his eyebrows giving away just how worried he is.

"Dani," Malcolm wheezes, setting off another fit of coughing that has him curling up on his side, trying to ease the strain on his chest as he ignores the tears that trail down his cheeks.

"She's good, kid," Gil says as he runs soothing circles over Malcolm's back, and somehow it actually seems to make breathing just a tiny bit easier.

He opens his eyes to find Dani — soaked to the bone with her hair plastered to her head — supported by JT, making their way over to him. Dani drops to her knees next to him, while JT keeps watch a few steps back, arms crossed over his chest as he looks down at Malcolm with a softness in his eyes that Malcolm's not sure he's ever seen. Certainly not directed at him, anyways.

Malcolm tries to suppress the coughs that are still attempting to break their way free of his chest, letting them silently rack his body, praying that the ache subsides.

"Bright," Dani says as she reaches out to gently take one of his hands in her own. "You saved me. Thank you." 

Malcolm can do little more than close his eyes and focus on his breathing, offering a small squeeze to Dani's hand to let her know that he's heard her. He doesn't have the strength to process the fact that he almost failed. That he almost lost her. Not yet. So he shifts his attention to something that's easier to handle.

"Wyatt Broderick," he wheezes, lungs convulsing at the expenditure of air.

"We got him," JT says brusquely, and Malcolm blinks up to find a tension in JT's shoulders that, combined with his lack of further explanation, suggests that Wyatt did not give up easily. The haunted look in Gil's eyes that Malcolm recognizes from every time the man fails to save someone — killers and victims alike — confirms that Wyatt didn't survive the take down.

Malcolm isn't surprised. Not really. The man clearly felt he had no reason left to live. But still, Malcolm can't help but wonder, if he had been there when Mr. Broderick was confronted, could he have talked him down? Could he have found a way to convince Wyatt to come quietly? To convince him that there's always _something_ worth living for?

He's dragged from these thoughts as a series of coughs racks his body. The pain rips through him like jagged shards of glass, scratching and scraping its way up, leaving his lungs and throat raw as he curls in on himself and prays for it to stop.

"Bright?" 

Malcolm hears his name but can't focus enough to even tell who's calling it, and can't catch enough of a breath to respond anyways. When a sharp pain spikes through his chest, on top of everything else, it throws him into a panic and he lashes out, grasping for something or someone to help him breathe.

Strong hands grip his arms and legs, attempting to hold him still, but the coughing continues, and it hurts, and he needs it to _stop_. 

"Bright?!" The panic in the voice is enough to catch his attention, to draw him from his own terror into someone else's. His eyes shoot open, frantically darting around the space, barely pausing on anything long enough to really perceive his surroundings. But he does see his team. All three of them are staring down at him, looking as terrified and helpless as he feels, and it makes his heart stutter in his chest to witness their fear.

He's still desperately trying to suck even the smallest sips of oxygen into his aching lungs, but he forces his limbs to still in an effort to alleviate their concern. He's so focused on the pain in his chest, on staying still, on trying to get one goddamn breath, that he nearly misses the uniformed officer that leads two paramedics into the room. 

They rush to Malcolm's side, dropping down to their knees as JT and Dani back away to give them some space to work. Gil stays nearby, mouth tense and eyes glistening as he watches the paramedics perform their initial assessment, hooking Malcolm up to various monitors as they attempt to ease his breathing.

They speak quickly, directing their comments to one another, and their questions to Gil, but Malcolm finds it increasingly difficult to follow the thread of the conversation. Everything is starting to feel muddled, which he knows is less than ideal, but can't quite place why.

The paramedics toss around words like laryngospasm and bronchospasm that mean nothing to him, but he starts to panic as one of the medics says, "Administering succinylcholine and propofol for intubation."

Even in his haze, he recognizes propofol as a sedative and his hands shoot out, trying to stop them from sedating him, from trapping him inside of his nightmare-fueled mind. His coordination is lacking, though, and he ends up feebly hitting one of the medics while Gil grabs hold of his other hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

"It's okay, kid. They're gonna help you breathe a little easier." The sad smile that graces Gil's face does nothing to assuage Malcolm's fears, but he doesn't have the airflow to protest and there's a needle pinching his arm almost immediately, and, with a rapidity that frightens him, the pull of unconsciousness is too strong to fight. The last thing he's aware of is his jaw being pried open, the feel of metal bumping between his teeth and the brush of something at the back of his throat, before he slips into the darkness.

\---

He awakens slowly, the fog of sedation keeping him lost in a liminal state for what feels like days. Eventually, as sounds begin to filter in, he becomes aware of a measured whirring hiss off to his left, accompanied by a symphony of various beeps and alarms. It takes longer than it should for him to realize that his chest inflates in time with the hiss of air, but as soon as he does, the adrenaline spikes through his system and clears away the last of the fog from his mind.

His eyes shoot open and he tries to sit himself up, but there are suddenly strong hands holding down his shoulders, keeping him from moving. His attempts to scream are met with a hysteria-inducing _nothingness_ that feels so close to so many of his nightmares that his heart begins to hammer against his ribs, his world reduced to a type of terror he's never felt before.

"Bright? Bright! I need you to look at me. Malcolm please, I need you to focus on me," Gil's voice filters in around the panic, settling in the spaces that haven't yet been consumed. 

Malcolm's eyes fall on the man standing over him and a little of the terror recedes. He knows Gil wouldn't do anything to hurt him, trusts him to keep him safe. But the fact that Gil is standing by while Malcolm is unable to speak — to breathe — is making him wonder if that's true.

"Malcolm, kid, you need to calm down," Gil says, hands still holding him tightly. "You're on a ventilator and you need to stay still or you're going to hurt yourself."

He grasps onto Gil's wrists, holding tight as he tries to do as instructed, eyes drilling into Gil's, begging for help.

"It's okay. You're okay," Gil keeps his voice low and soothing, but it's tight with a tension that he can't seem to hide, and Malcolm picks up on it immediately. "I've called for a nurse. Help is coming."

Malcolm does his best to tamp down on the panic, focusing instead on the pain from the tubes and probes, and the dull ache in his ribs that spikes every time the ventilator forces air into his lungs. He doesn't even realize that his fingernails are digging into Gil's wrists until the man hisses as the skin breaks beneath the pressure, but Gil doesn't say a word about it, just continues to talk to Malcolm so he knows he's not alone.

The nurse comes quickly, a slight woman in light blue scrubs and a tight ponytail. She comes to Malcolm's side immediately, her deep brown eyes sweeping over the various machines he's connected to before settling on Malcolm himself.

"Hello Mr. Bright," she says with a kind smile and a calm composure that immediately slows his racing heart, if only a little. "My name is Tasha and I'm going to be one of your nurses while you're here."

Malcolm still hasn't released his grip on Gil, but he notices that Gil has lessened his hold on Malcolm's shoulders now that he's fighting less.

"Now, you're currently on a ventilator, and that's the tube that you feel in your throat. I understand that it can be very frightening, but I promise you that it's completely safe," she speaks very slowly, keeping eye contact with Malcolm the entire time, gauging his receptiveness to her words. "Your lungs took a bit of a battering and need some time to heal, and the ventilator makes sure that we get your lungs back to full health."

She pauses for a moment, clearly giving him a chance to process her words before she continues and he takes the time to look over to Gil, who hasn't torn his eyes away from Malcolm since he woke up. His face is drawn, and Malcolm can't help but notice just how much older the man seems all of a sudden.

"Are you in any pain, Mr. Bright? Blink once for yes and twice for no."

He debates not answering, shrugging it off as no big deal. But he can't just check himself out of the hospital this time and walk it off, wandering the streets until the burn of his legs outweighs every other ache and pain. Can't just throw himself into a case, hyper-focusing until the world blurs around him, to take his mind off of how much it hurts. 

He blinks once.

Gil's hands tighten on his shoulders and Malcolm sees the tears well up in his eyes.

"Okay, I'm going to increase your dosage of pain medication right away and the doctor will be here soon to explain a little more about your treatment plan." She leans towards the IV as she speaks, punching a series of buttons that almost immediately takes the edge off, as painkillers wash through his body. 

His hands finally unclench from around Gil's wrists, falling limply to the bed beside him as his entire being somehow feels like it's sinking through the bed and floating away at the same time. He lets his eyes fall closed and listens to the conversation between Gil and Tasha, following very little of it but taking comfort from the voices nonetheless. The fear is still there, but it's less relevant just now. The little spark of terror every time he feels like he needs to take a breath, and can't, is forgotten with every pump of the ventilator, only to flicker to life again, over and over on an infinite loop.

He blinks his eyes open when a new voice makes itself known, finding a tall, stern looking woman in a white coat in place of the nurse whom he hadn't even realized had left.

"Can't we keep him sedated?" Gil asks, voice thick with held back tears. "He's terrified."

"We can," the doctor says simply, "but there are numerous medical benefits in favour of not sedating him. The amount of time he spends on the ventilator, as well as the amount of time he's required to stay in the hospital after he's extubated, will both be significantly reduced if he's not sedated."

"Jesus," Gil murmurs, dropping his head to his chest for a moment before he looks up and says, "He's in pain."

"We can certainly reevaluate the dosage of his pain relievers," the doctor assures Gil. "The goal here is to keep him as comfortable as we can while his lungs heal. There _will_ be some discomfort, but if he can push his way through it, he'll be the better for it in the end." 

Gil huffs out a breath, his eyes finding Malcolm's as he looks down once again. He takes Malcolm's hand in his and smiles down, trying his best to keep his concerns from showing on his face, and failing miserably.

"Hey, kid, did you hear that?" 

Malcolm blinks once, fighting to force his eyes back open once they're closed.

"Think you'll be okay being awake for this? It's gonna get you out of here faster," Gil's smile finally tips towards sincere, knowing just how much Malcolm hates the hospital.

He blinks once more, or, more specifically, tries to. He can't seem to drag his eyes back open this time, so he gives Gil's hand a squeeze instead. The idea of spending the next — hours? days? weeks? — trapped in this bed, unable to move or speak or breathe is more terrifying than any nightmare his mind could possibly conjure, but he needs this to be over as soon as possible. 

He drifts off as Gil and the doctor continue to speak, losing the thread of the conversation almost immediately, pulling comfort from the steady hand of the man who's been like a father to him for over 20 years.

The next time he wakes up, the room is dark and his hands immediately fly to the obstruction in his mouth that's keeping him from breathing, clumsy fingers fumbling to wrap around the tube as he forgets once again where he is and what exactly is happening. The hands that stop him this time are cold and soft and surprisingly gentle for all their strength.

"Hey, Bright. You need to stop," Dani says, leaning in so close that their joined hands are practically sandwiched between them. It takes several minutes for Malcolm to remember where he is, why he can't breathe. When he finally does, he can't stop the tears that start to leak from the corners of his eyes, the utter powerlessness of his situation feeling like a crushing weight that there's no way to escape. "Hey, shh. It's okay."

He can feel the sob building inside of him, but it has nowhere to go and the pressure refuses to abate. The tears fall faster as the helplessness and fear and anger all crest and swell and then stall in his chest. Letting go of one of his hands, Dani brings her fingers to his face, wiping away the tears as they continue to flow. He leans into the touch as much as he can, feeling less trapped, less alone, as her skin brushes against his. 

She stays close until the tears begin to slow, her touch tentatively moving to run through his hair, and then continuing when he relaxes at the touch. He lets his eyes slip closed, takes the comfort he would deny himself under any other circumstances.

"Bright, I want to thank you," Dani says quietly as her hand continues it's soothing motion. His eyes find hers in the dim cast of the room, a depth of emotion that seems almost bottomless staring back at him. "You put yourself through hell for me. You nearly died to save me." 

He can see her biting on the inside of her cheek, trying to hold back her emotions, and he wants to tell her that it's not a big deal, that he'd do it again in a heartbeat, that she doesn't need to thank him.

That he's sorry he couldn't have done better.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you, Bright," she whispers.

It's too much. Especially when he's feeling so raw and so very, very trapped. He closes his eyes against the world and it's not long before the painkillers leave him floating in the in-between once again. Though the doctors aren't sedating him, the pain medication seems to be doing a fair job of keeping him semi-lucid most of the time, and he's more than happy to let himself drift just now.

Unfortunately, they taper his doses soon after, which means less and less of his time over the next 48 or so hours is spent unconscious (or close enough to unconscious to be comfortable). The time drags by painfully slowly and with a jagged edge of constant apprehension, and the only thing that gets him through is the fact that he's never left on his own. Gil, Dani, Jessica, Ainsley, even JT and Edrisa, all take turns sitting with him for a few hours at a stretch. The constant presence of someone he loves by his bedside helps to ease not only the suffocating terror, but the mind-numbing boredom as well.

When the doctor finally comes to remove the endotracheal tube and get him off the ventilator, he's frustratingly lucid and so happy to hear the news that he damn near rips the tube out himself. JT happens to be on babysitting duty, as Malcolm has come to think of it, and the man offers to leave for the process, but Malcolm jerks a hand out, reaching blindly for JT before he can leave. The idea of being left alone for this is surprisingly uncomfortable.

JT is quick to take hold of Malcolm's hand, looking down at him with worry in his eyes, but only saying a soft, "It's okay, man. I'll stay," before looking over to the doctor to see that it's alright.

The doctor — Doctor Johnson, Malcolm notices on her name badge, though he's sure she introduced herself at some point during his stay — offers a terse nod and gives a brief explanation of what she's about to do, and what to expect. Malcolm finds himself unexpectedly nervous at the thought. He's been on the vent for nearly 60 hours altogether, and although the first half of that time is mostly just cloudy memories, it's still long enough that his mind has come to associate the vent with breathing. Logically, he knows that he can breath on his own, but that doesn't stop the anxiety that begins to course through his body.

"Are you ready Mr. Bright?" she finally asks, raising the head of Malcolm's bed so that he's almost fully seated.

No, he realizes, he's not. 

He blinks his eyes once and gives a small nod anyways.

She suctions his airway quickly and with an ease of movement that speaks of having done it a thousand times before. When the vent finishes pumping a puff of air into his lungs, she deflates the cuff of the tube and pulls it out in one smooth motion.

He coughs and gags as the tube is removed, but she places a high flow oxygen mask over his nose and mouth almost immediately and the rush of oxygen into his lungs helps to soothe the irritation and soon he's leaned back against the bed, breathing on his own.

He releases his stiff grip on JT's hand with a sheepish smile that he's not sure JT even sees beneath the mask that's covering his face, but JT just pats his arm and smiles back at him.

The doctor checks his stats and asks him a few yes or no questions, to which he nods or shakes his head accordingly. When she seems to be finished with her inquiries and is jotting down some notes on his chart, he catches her attention with a wave of his hand, points to himself, and then points to the window, or more specifically the world outside of the hospital. His meaning is abundantly clear and JT shakes his head in disbelief as the doctor gives him a bit of a smile, finally cracking her stony facade.

"I'm sorry Mr. Bright, but you're going to be with us for a while longer, yet," Doctor Johnson says. At his look of rebellion, that clearly states 'I'll be checking myself out AMA', she explains, "being on the vent creates a positive pressure in the chest cavity, which reduces blood flow to the heart. Though you're young and healthy and I don't foresee any issues, we're still going to need to monitor your circulation and manage the increase of blood to your heart to prevent heart failure."

Malcolm slumps down on the bed, defeated and resigning himself to yet another night in the hospital. But at least now he can move about, and breathe on his own. It doesn't seem quite so terrible.

"You'll need to keep this oxygen mask on for at least a half hour, longer if your blood oxygen levels aren't where we'd like them to be. A nurse will be coming to check on you regularly, but if you have any concerns, be sure to ring for assistance," Doctor Johnson states as she finishes up what she's doing. "Your throat is going to be sore for a couple of days and your voice will likely be hoarse when you speak, but that will pass quite quickly and is nothing to be concerned about." As she heads towards the door, she adds, "I'll be back shortly to see how you're faring, and hopefully we'll be able to switch you to a nasal cannula for oxygen, which will be much more comfortable. Just relax and breath normally until then."

It seems like such a simple thing, 'breathe normally', but he feels like he's focusing far more of his attention on doing just that than he really should. Like he's afraid if he's not thinking about it, he might forget to keep breathing. It's silly, he knows, but he has a feeling it's a sensation that's going to stick with him for a while.

"Hey man," JT's voice cuts into his thoughts, and he opens his eyes, unaware he'd even closed them, to see JT sitting in the chair next to his bed, leaning towards him. His brow is still creased with concern as he asks, "you feeling okay?"

He gives a weak thumbs up, realizing now just how exhausted he is. Maybe a little nap wouldn't be the worst idea while he waits for the doctor to come back. He lets his eyes drift closed, but JT's soft voice cuts in once more. 

"You did good, Bright," JT's large hand reaches out and gives Malcolm's a light press. "Now get better so you can come back to work. It's not the same without your skinny ass at the precinct."

Malcolm's lips lift into a soft smile as he drifts into a light sleep, chest rising and falling steadily, knowing that he's going to be okay. And finally understanding that he has a place on the team.


End file.
